


to whom it may concern

by togekissies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togekissies/pseuds/togekissies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t know,” he admits. “You were never afraid of killing. But I’m not afraid of you. It’s like you’re--”</p>
<p>“Pathetic.”</p>
<p>“--A friend.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	to whom it may concern

 

She never intended to meet the eyes of the Signless, nor did she ever wish to stick around if she did. And yet she spots him from across a desolate neighborhood she had leveled not but hours earlier, and he smiles until lines appear around his eyes.

He says, “Ah, it’s you. Hello there. Are you here to kill me? Out of all the visions of my death I have been granted, I must say, this one seems like the most pleasant.”

She stares.

She replies, “Normally those whom I visit are not so joyful to see me.”

His smile increases and the wrinkles around his eyes are joined by two that frame his lips. “I do not fear you, Damara. Nor do I fear death. I made peace with mortality before beginning my mission. I knew I would not come out of this alive.”

The Handmaid’s feet touch the ground before him and she does not reply. Instead, he continues. “If Death himself finds my message as deplorable as those who oppose me, who am I to argue? My life is yours, Demoness, and it always has been.”

She did not come here for a sermon. She came here for--

For what, she does not know.

She turns on her heel and disappears through time. Before this moment slips from her completely she hears, “What the fuck? Was that who I think it is?” and, “Quiet, Mituna. She’s been through a lot.”

—

She goes into his past.

—

She finds him huddled alone where the desert meets the forest. He has a cloak hugged tightly around him, the hem dirtied and tattered. He looks up at her, eyes youth-grey and innocent, and yet she can still see the flicker of recognition behind them.

“You’re one of those people,” he says quietly, his voice lacking the booming confidence she heard not but a minute again.

“Those people?” she repeats, coming a stop in front of him. The moon is pink behind her and the tips of her hair gather dirt from the ground.

“Mom says she doesn’t--” he cuts himself off, scratches his nose, then starts anew. “You’re someone I know but don’t know. I remember you but I’ve never met you before.” He looks up at her, trusting, too trusting. She could blast him into little fleshy red bits in a fraction of a second and part of her burns with the need to kill him on the spot. “Does that ever happen to you?”

She almost responds on impulse, “Never,” but she would not be who she is if she had not learned to swallow her words before speaking. She says, “Do you know who I am?”

He nods, shrugs, and tugs his threadbare cloak closer around him to protect from the breeze. “The Demoness.”

“Why do you not fear me?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “You were never afraid of killing. But I’m not afraid of you. It’s like you’re--”

“Pathetic.”

“--A friend.”

She kneels before him and gazes into his eyes. He looks back, his attempt at keeping his face emotion-blank failing. She asks, as quiet as a whisper, “Do you know my name?”

He answers in the same tone, “Yes. Do you know mine?”

She touches his face with the tip of her nail and he flinches away. “Death is a gift. Treasure it, old friend, for living is pain and death is freedom.”

He musters all of the strength in his tiny body of a child, summons the wisdom of sweeps of life beyond what she can see and control, and says simply, “You’re wrong.”

She kisses the top of his head, granting him her mark of protection, and leaves him.

—

She goes further this time, forward.

—

She does not wait for an invitation, nor does she make herself known; instead she sits in his personal tent and waits for him to find her. She helps herself to his supplies; reverses the bedding until it is comfortable once more, takes back the overused tea leaves to a state of perfection, brings the small firepit back to it’s burning glory from the day before.

He enters the tent hours later, when the sun begins to rise at his back. He says his final good morning’s to someone unseen, and does not start when he sees her. She takes her time and enjoys a sip of tea before offering him the same.

She says, “You’re late.”

He laughs, his face displaying a smile once more. He is noticeably older. “You and I both know that’s not true--you’re simply early.”

“Perhaps.”

He chuckles, the noise coming from deep in his chest. “I would tell you to make yourself at home but it looks like you already have. What brings you here, old friend?”

“You do not know what the future holds.”

“And you do.”

“Yes.”

“Are you here to tell me?”

She laughs, though hers is forced and dry. Her throat aches. She hasn’t laughed in a long time. “Have I ever done so before? No, do not answer. I shall break my vow of silence on this matter to inform you of your death in the coming moonlight.”

“Hmm.” He sips his tea calmly. “And of my friends?”

“No. I deliver you news of your fate, and yours alone.”

At that he seems crestfallen. “Please, Da--Handmaid, if you have any part of my death, let them live.”

“It is not up for me to decide.”

“Of course.” He sighs, and looks so old.

She leans forward on her arms, abandoning her teacup. “You have never cared to barter for the lives of your friends before,” she says predatorily. “Why now?”

He ignores and redirects, “Why have you stayed? You always used to deliver news or antagonize only to flee immediately, why change now?”

“Excuse me?” Her fury cackles audibly in the air. “You have chosen your language to infuriate me! Do you think this will win you any favor with the helper of death itself?”

He throws his head back and laughs, he laughs at her, and her shame burns deep red on her face. “No, forgive me, Demoness. I just wished to see that face one last time.”

She fixes him with a glare.

“Ah. Then in your future, perhaps. But for now, let a dying troll enjoy his last whim.”

She is done with this fool. Why did she bother marking him? Why did she ever desire the power over the strings of his fate, to comfort herself by seeing every moment of his short and horrible life before his inevitable torturous death? She grabs the fabric around his neck tightly and yanks him forward; she kisses him roughly, impatient, having never cared to learn how to be gentle. And he just lets her do it with no struggle nor reaction.

She shoves him away and spits in his face. Softly he smiles, and touches her cheek lightly with a rough hand. “There. Better?”

“You toy with me.”

“No. That was always your job.”

She stands, her horns brushing the top of the tent. “Goodbye, Kankri.”

He grabs her wrist, and for the first time she is graced with a panicked look. “No, wait. Please stay. Just for today.” When she does not answer, he says, “I am dying, old friend. I never had the chance to spend time with you before, and before the before. I do not want to squander my last chance.”

And finally, she sits.

She says, “You are very calm, though you do not forget you are dying. Why do you not fear me? Why do you not fear death?”

“I have been dying since I was hatched.” He replies, filling both of their cups with fresh tea. “Why do you not fear death? I have asked many times and yet you never answered.”

She waits, and thinks, and wonders why the troll before her is so different from those she had met and destroyed before, and why she cannot rid herself of him. But she does not say this. She says instead, “I do not fear death because I long for it.”

He does not judge. He asks, “Why?”

“Because I cannot.”

He pats her hand and her skin stings. She wonders why he is so casual about touching her. “I’m sorry. I would help you with that, if I could.”

She shrugs, lets it go. “Death will be my reward for my service.”

“As it is for mine.”

She stares at the side of the tent, the fabric brightening with the coming sun. She loses track of time--or pretends she does--and does not speak.

“Damara,” Kankri says quietly. She does not start, though he has her attention. “I assume the reason you never told me about yourself is because you already had in your past, and my future. So please, tell me about your life.”

She shifts, uncomfortable. “I will,” she promises, surprising herself. “If you would tell me why you keep calling me by that name.”

“Not how do I know that name?”

“You see visions of Alternia before an event called a Scratch. I do not understand why it is called that or what life was like there, nor do I care, but this I have known since I was young. I was young long ago, longer than you. I was raised on tales of your life.”

Kankri smiles kindly at her, and she is not even ashamed for revealing so much about herself. “I call you Damara because it is your name, though I try not to if it upsets you.”

“It is okay,” she says. “You may call me that. You are the only one left who even knows it.”

He nods. “Damara. Thank you.”

“Kankri. Shut up.”

He laughs, and Damara finds herself joining in.

—

She does not sleep, and leaves when he does. She tears the embroidered sign from the collar of her dress and tucks it into his hands, not as an insult but as a reminder. It burns to the ground with the rest of his camp after he is captured, and she does not care.


End file.
